Day 38: Timisoara to Mako (Hungary)

Its not a long ride today so I take it easy getting started. I feel the laundry. It's not quite dry so leave it in the morning sun a while longer. I head over to the shower block. It's warm. Over my morning mugs of strong milky tea I sit and whittle a wooden plug to close off the bike's fuel pipe, for when I remove and clean the carburettor. It's a curiously relaxing thing to do, whittling.

A final photo opportunity with Walter on his bike and me on the Honda and we head out through the gate riding together. We say our goodbyes, part and head our different ways; me North to Hungary and Walter South and on to Nepal.

I work my way through the city traffic of Timisoara then out onto the flat, straight country roads of Romania.

Two cars pass wide and slow. I look at the plates. GB. 'It makes you proud to be British,' a voice says in my head. It's a voice that sounds like the Al Murray's Pub Landlord on TV.

A hundred metres ahead, a white truck suddenly swerves into my side of the road, coming straight at me. A cloud of dust and smoke billows from the front. The front tyre has blown. I brake hard and steer as far to the right as I can. The truck driver manages to get it under control and stops, straddling both lanes.  He opens his door. We look at each other. "Shit." I say. There's nothing I can do to help. I ride on.

I get close to Mako, my destination. I indicate and  turn left onto a gravel track, just after a white iron bridge. There's a large sign - 'Camping Mako'.  Well done, Satty; you've  got me here. The track is closed off with a tape. What now?  I phone the number on my sheet. "Do you speak English?"
"No... A little." He speaks in rapid Hungarian and then I catch, "Sixty minutes, bye bye." The call ends. What now? I wait a few minutes then head to the supermarket and see what happens when I return.
The tape's gone and the campsite is open! It's a beautiful place. Tree lined avenues form the camping pitches.  Old wooden carts and implements lie in wild meadows. A man working on a little tractor tells me that I should pitch wherever I want and to register when reception opens at seven.

I set up camp and sit and look around . Apart from me with my tent, there are just two camper vans. Outside one, an old man is sitting at an electric organ, playing a Beatles tune.  I walk over and compliment him on his playing (to be polite) and we chat. He's decided to learn to play at the age of seventy-nine. He plays a slightly mangled version of 'Irish Washerwoman'. I clap.
We talk about our respective routes. He's intending to head to Albania so I tell him about my experience of Albanian roads.

I head over o the reception - a table set outside the main building. The friendly owner laughs constantly and fills a glass of cold schnapps as I pay. We toast and knock it back in one. What a lovely place this is.

Back by the tent, I set to work on the bike. I remove the legshield and strip the carburettor, plugging the fuel pipe with the plug I whittled this morning. I go over the bike, tightening nuts and replacing a missing screw on the the exhaust heatshield. The cylinder head bolts needed a pinch up. The vibration and hammering on rough roads plays havoc - working anything loose that can be loosened.

Once finished, I wipe my hands on a rag and open my last tin of Moussaka bought in Greece and heat it up on my little gas cooker. I put it on the plate with fresh tomatoes, cucumber and a splash of olive oil. I pour a tin mug of white wine but before long it appears the bottle has become empty. I'll leave washing up until the morning. I crawl into my sleeping bag and fall asleep to the buzzing and chirping of insects and the rustling of the trees above the tent.